“The harm in it is quite simply this—if I tear out your soul, a piece of it remains within me, forever marking me like a scar. I would have to suffer with a bit of you inside my mind for the rest of my life.”
“That explains why you do not simply run about destroying everyone who annoys you.” Zadok cringed then grinned. “But mine will not be so much of a scar as it would be a beauty mark, no? Think of it—a little bit of me, following you about wherever you go. How wonderful.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why, Zadok? Why put yourself at risk? I cannot imagine you are so curious as to why Dracula has become interested in me that you would put your own eternal existence on the line.”
His expression darkened, and he lowered his hand with a sigh. “If he dies…if he truly dies? If you rip him to pieces because you decide he is not worthy of life? Then I will be left alone. I suppose it is possible that I could die as well—all of us, our eternal plague—might fall apart without the source at its head. I think I would prefer that to the alternative. To abandonment.”
There was an ache in his words. A hollowness that struck her. She reached out and placed her gloved hand on his shoulder. For all his showmanship, he was terrified. She could sense it burning away like a fire. It was a childish kind of fear. One that cried out for someone to come and make it right. A lonely kind of thing, desperate for an embrace.
He was afraid of being left alone. Dracula was his family.
“I want to know why you’re worth it.”
Maxine took off her glove and offered him her hand. “I will do my best not to destroy you. I am sorry if I do.”
“I am not so fragile as those mortal things you killed.” He smiled, an expression that did not reach his eyes and left him looking sad more than anything else. “And if I am, then enjoy carrying a piece of me around with you, I suppose.” He took her hand.
His touch was cold like Vlad’s.
Then it happened. His soul was touching hers.
She pulled in a breath and shut her eyes as his memories crashed over her.
“Get up, sewer rat!”
A foot met his ribs. He tasted blood and dirt in his mouth. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have much else to taste. This time he did not feel a crunch when the foot met his midsection like he did the previous week. He grunted in pain and spat the viscous liquid that pooled under his tongue, bitter and hot.
“Get up! It’s no fun if you don’t fight back.”
“Stop it, Robin.”
One of the older boys—one of the stronger ones—reached down and yanked him up from the ground. The world tilted and moved violently as he was pushed. He reeled, crashed into a pile of crates in the warehouse their little pack had taken up residence in. The wood constructs rocked and teetered, but he was much smaller than they were.
He was smaller than most of the other boys, even for his age.
The older boy—Girard—marched forward and glowered down at him with his best attempt at looking authoritative. “What’ve you got to show for your day?”
He was supposed to have gathered and stolen. Pickpocketed and lied to bring back a haul for the others. But it had been a terrible day. It had rained throughout the entirety of it, and the markets were bare of the foolish aristocrats who kept their belongings tucked in the easily pilfered outer pockets of their coats.
Zadok could only shake his head. He had nothing. He had come back emptyhanded.
And that was a sin.
A sin he had to pay for.
“Then you know what happens.” Girard sneered as he undid the fly of his pants. “Turn around, sewer rat.”
This was his punishment. He deserved this. It was better than being alone.
Anything was better than being alone.
He turned and bent over the crate. This was not his first time being scolded in such a way.
He doubted it would be his last.
“No! Don’t leave me—please, please don’t—” he cried as he watched the carriage roll away. He chased it, tripping over himself. His aching ankle, sprained from the beating he had been given, was useless. He landed in the dirt and the muck and the ruts left behind by the wheels of those with money and privilege.